


The Peninsula

by austenfan1990



Series: To Love and to Part [1]
Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 15:03:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4924153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/austenfan1990/pseuds/austenfan1990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>'Jonathan Strange, Magician-in-Ordinary to His Majesty’s Army, had returned to England. As he passed through its winding streets, London appeared not to have altered in the three years he had been away. On the surface, all seemed the same.'</i>
</p><p>Or in which I imagine what might have occurred during the time between Jonathan's arrival at Soho Square and Arabella's return from her (attempted) visit to Lady Pole at the end of 'The Education of a Magician'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Peninsula

Jonathan Strange, Magician-in-Ordinary to His Majesty’s Army, had returned to England. As he passed through its winding streets, London appeared not to have altered in the three years he had been away. On the surface, all seemed the same.

But the England he returned to was different in the sense that the nation was no longer at war – after over twenty continuous years of conflict. Wellington had chased the French from Spain over the Pyrenees and Napoleon himself had finally been cornered and defeated in Paris by the Russians, Prussians and Austrians and thence exiled to Elba. England and the rest of Europe were at peace and so naturally by extension was supposedly Jonathan Strange.

However if there was ever a man who felt at peace, that man was decidedly _not_ he. As his carriage pulled up in Soho Square, it occurred to him to recall the last time he had seen it and what had transpired since then.

At present what he felt most keenly was the absence of Jeremy. Indeed, he would not be sitting here in this carriage had it not been for his sacrifice and his loyalty. It was a sobering thought. Dear, faithful Jeremy. Jonathan also would not have Arabella’s book with him now, her wedding gift to him and which he treasured almost as dearly he did her. He instinctively felt for it in his inner coat pocket and finding it, was comforted.

Books, books, books. He had more books then than he did now. Mr Norrell’s books, all forty of them, were notable by their absence too. But both they and in what manner Jonathan would eventually have to explain their demise – because that is precisely how Mr Norrell would later choose to describe their fate – did not trouble him. Not at this precise moment for there was suddenly a feeling of restlessness upon him.

His restlessness was augmented by the realisation that Arabella was not at home; she had gone to call upon Lady Pole.

It must be said that Jonathan was a little put out at not being greeted by his wife upon the threshold but then, quite unusually, checked himself. He had of course given her no indication of his return and he suspected that his last letter written in the Peninsula had not yet reached English shores. Perhaps this had been deliberate, perhaps this was Providence. But he remembered that he had desired his arrival to be a surprise and so he contented himself with picturing the expression on her beloved face once she beheld him.

His boxes were taken upstairs which he observed with an absent eye but he did not follow them. He wanted to remain below, near the door, by the window…anywhere which would afford him a glimpse of his wife when she returned to the house. At length, he stationed himself in the drawing room and spent a quarter of an hour gazing out of the window. In time he thought the better of it as this would ruin any attempt at surprise whatsoever. Besides, it was growing darker by the minute and it would not be long until he would hardly be able to see anyone, much less Arabella, outside. As if in confirmation, Mary came in to light the candles.

‘Is there anything you would like, sir?’ she asked once the room was aglow with warm light.

‘No, thank you, Mary. Did Mrs Strange say when she would return?’

‘I’m afraid not, sir.’

‘Thank you.’ He paused and then added when she was nearly out of the room, ‘Just one thing, Mary. When my wife comes through the door…could you not mention that I have returned? I should very much like to surprise her.’

Mary smiled and curtsied. ‘As you wish, sir.’

She departed and Jonathan began to contemplate on how best to occupy himself. He sat in his favourite chair by the fire and endeavoured to reread _A Child’s History of the Raven King_. However, he found this a fruitless task: he knew all the words by heart and Arabella’s dedication to him upon the flyleaf served only to heighten his yearning for her. He instead found himself staring at her vacant seat where she used to while away their evenings together, either engrossed in her needlework or a sketch of something or other. Jonathan knew little of art but he knew that his wife was a gifted draughtswoman and he took great pride in it. She had even attempted to sketch a portrait of _him_ not long before his going away to the Peninsula.

Jonathan smiled a little to himself as he recalled the occasion. They had been seated just so; with her opposite him, her eyes darting every so often from her sketchbook to his face. However he had made an exceedingly poor subject – he had at the time been more preoccupied in expounding his theory that Norrell was keeping certain information from him while alternately reading his book – and Arabella had finally entreated him, with no little edge in her voice, to keep still. After several more futile attempts and it was discovered that he could hardly do so for more than a minute, she had given up and the portrait had been abandoned.

But Arabella was not a woman to do things by halves and Jonathan wondered whether she had ever come round to completing it. As if sensing his train of thought, his gaze was drawn to her sketchbook which lay closed on the table. He had given to her for her birthday – the last one they had celebrated together – and thus it gave him no little pleasure to see it so prominently on display. Furthermore, it looked well used and his curiosity was piqued. It had the advantage of being untied; the blue ribbon which normally held its covers together was loose as if Arabella had been disturbed mid-sketch. This impression was strengthened when he saw that pencils were piled hurriedly atop it.

Arabella was not shy in showing her creations but only on the condition that they were finished. She would no doubt be a little vexed if she discovered that he had had a glimpse without her knowledge but the more he thought of them, the more he was set in looking at them.

He carefully set the pencils aside, took up the book and opened it to the first sketch.

The scene was uncannily familiar and soon he recognised it as the fortress where he had first sojourned upon arriving in the Lines of Torres Vedras. How Arabella had recreated the scene so precisely was a mystery to him until he remembered that he had sent her a long letter detailing how miserable he was, how poorly he had been received by both Wellington and the army in general and so forth (in truth, he had somewhat regretted sending it off as it was quite unmanly to complain but the letter had already been deposited on the packet boat when he had changed his mind). In the midst of all his complaints, he gathered he must have described the scene in some detail and later forgotten he had done so. For how else had Arabella been able to capture it so minutely, even down to Winespill’s birthmark?

He turned the page.

This one was devoid of a living soul and it appeared to be a desolate stretch of hilly landscape save for a road snaking its way through the rough terrain. Again, Jonathan had excitedly written to her about his first success in Portugal and no doubt this was to commemorate his achievement of it.

Page upon page, sketch upon sketch, it was impressed upon his mind that he was reliving the past three years through the magic of Arabella’s hand and again and again, he marvelled at both her skill and the accuracy of her representations. How she must have pored over his letters, observed every detail he had jotted down – even the most obscure, absurd ones – as he himself had done the same with hers over the hills and over the main. The thought warmed him a great deal.

At last, he reached the second to last page and turned it.

What greeted him was a sketch of…himself.

Instinctively his eyes flew upwards, seeking the mirror that hung on the wall as to ascertain that it was indeed not the latter he was holding.

It was not the one she had begun in his presence for the pose was altogether quite different. He concluded therefore that it must have been drawn from memory. Ah, how well she knew him! There was his hair, all dark curls, wild and unruly. Then there was the scar upon his left brow and the customary stubble about his jaw. His doppelganger’s gaze was directed outwards into the eye of the beholder, knowing and unwavering, the lids slightly hooded and if his eyes were not deceiving him, there was even a hint of a mischievous smile upon the lips.

Having taken all this in and overcome his initial surprise, Jonathan began to laugh. For Arabella had captured the exact expression he adopted whenever he was in an amorous mood and they were alone in the evenings (and admittedly sometimes when it was not yet evening). Thence came the unbidden memory of her answering, sultry look came to his mind and another pang of longing shot through him.

Jonathan shut the book abruptly and replaced it on the table. By now, it had reached a point where each passing moment without her was in danger of causing physical pain for it was no longer only his heart but his body which was aching for her. Even at this very moment, he felt his breeches becoming unreasonably tight. He had been far, far too long without her and if Arabella had taken to sketching him in this manner, he had no doubt that she felt the same with him.

Loosening his cravat a little, he called for some water to be brought. Mary had hardly been in the room for a minute when they both heard the front door open. Heart racing, he clasped his hands behind his back to hide the fact that they were trembling. Mary had left him alone again to welcome her mistress and he heard the barely suppressed delight in the young maid’s voice and then – and not without a joyous flutter in the pit of his stomach – Arabella’s curious rejoinder.

Jonathan stepped forward then but did not face them. Having regained control over his nerves – how odd it was that only few moments ago, he was flushed and flustered with not anxiety but with rather more primal feelings altogether…such was the effect of his wife upon him! – he turned his head.

A gasp escaped her lips, her eyes widened and he saw her step back a little as if she could not believe them. Instinctively and to assure her that he was no illusion, he turned so that he was fully facing her.

Whereas he was now in full view, so too was she. What a vision she was, was Jonathan’s first thought, and the awareness that it had been three years and not three weeks since they last set eyes upon each other suddenly impressed itself upon him. He felt awkward and self-conscious now, uncertain of how he would be received and Arabella’s reaction so far had given him no indication whatsoever.

He held out his arms a little in the hope that she would come to him but he faltered and they fell limp at his sides.

Instead he managed quietly, unsurely:

‘I am home.’

His words lingered in the air. There was another breathy intake of breath, another attempt at holding out his arms and then to his delight, Arabella was running towards him and he could not keep himself from grinning as he caught her in his embrace, lifting her off the floor as he did so. Revelling in the warmth of her and the feel of her cheek against his, he believed that he would be more than content to hold her thus forever.

He set her down and gazed into her eyes, ready to drown in their warm brown depths, before she pressed her lips to his and all coherent thought escaped him.

When they finally parted, Arabella beamed up at him, her countenance the very picture of happiness.

‘I am home,’ he repeated, tenderly wiping away a tear from the corner of her eye with his thumb.

‘At last, at last,’ she said. Then gathering herself a little, she added a little sternly, ‘You ought to have written you were coming, Jonathan.’

‘I’m sorry, Bell. I could not help myself. Are you angry that I did not write?’

Her slight frown gave way to a genuine smile. ‘No, I would not have it any other way. For if you did, you would not be the man I married.’ His heart warmed at this. ‘A promising sign that the Peninsula has not altered you in too great a fashion. One of many, I hope.’

‘Oh, I can assure you I have other means to prove my constancy.’ He was vaguely aware that his expression was taking on many aspects of the one captured in Arabella’s portrait but he neither desired to know nor care.

‘Indeed? I should be most interested to see these firsthand,’ she replied and fixed him with that much-missed look which always rendered him weak at the knees.

‘Shall we retire, Mrs Strange?’ asked Jonathan, a little thickly and taking her hand.

‘Gladly, Mr Strange.’


End file.
